


The Winchesters

by ssjdebusk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssjdebusk/pseuds/ssjdebusk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU</p><p>I don't own some of the dialogue or the movie Mr. & Mrs. Smith or Supernatural, or their characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winchesters

**Author's Note:**

> Let's see how much of an au to a movie I can do in one night *yikes face*  
> I've never actually published anything so yeah. Be kind /she says to the anonymous entities of the internet/
> 
> Tumblr is ssjdebusk.tumblr.com
> 
> Edit: I added the last bit, it got cut off in the final edit

“OK, I'll go first. Let me say, we don't really need to be here. See, we've been married five years.” Dean starts.

“Six.” Cas corrects, his tone icy but his overall demeanor a trained pleasant, guarded by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Five, six years. And this is like a check-up for us.  Chance to poke around the engine, maybe change the oil. Replace a seal or two.” Dean rambles, trying to ground himself in something he knows. Something that doesn’t make his skin crawl like sitting in separate chairs taking to a stranger about their lives. Cas nods, saying nothing. It’s about the worst thing he could have in Dean's book. He hates Cas' silent treatment and faux composure.

“Very well, then. Let's pop the hood. On a scale of one to ten, how happy a couple are you?” the therapist asks, polite excitement in his tone.

“Eight.” Cas responds automatically.

 “Wait. Ten being perfectly happy and one being totally miserable, or...” Dean asks, Cas sighs, shifts in seat to cover the roll of his eyes, but Dean knows him too well.

“Just respond instinctively.” The therapist answers.

 “OK. Ready?” Dean asks, looking to him, he doesn’t look back.

“Eight.” The answer in perfect unison.

There is an awkward lull before the he asks, "How often do you have sex?" Their eyes shift and the blood drains from Dean's face.

“I don't understand the question.” Cas says, his head turned slightly in a way Dean has seen echoed many times, he jumps on the need to connect, to be on Cas' side even in something trivial. 

“Yeah, I'm lost. Is this a one to ten thing?”

“But, because, is, like, one very little, or is one nothing?” Cas continues, being strangely talkative, “Because...you know, technically speaking, the zero would be nothing.”

“That’s right and if we don’t know what one is, what’s ten?” Dean adds, as if the question was impossible to answer. He could tell the sex talk makes Cas as uncomfortable if not more uncomfortable than it does him, seeing that Cas only babbles when he’s extremely nervous.

“Yes is ten like” Cas awkwardly laughs, moving his hands uncharacteristically often, “constant”

“Unrelenting” Dean adds, giving Cas a moment to take a very needed intake of air.

“Not stopping for even like–” Cas sputters,

“–nothing to eat” Dean supplies, Cas sighs, head bracing against hand, takes in a sigh and smiles, looking to Dean for a moment to check the accuracy as he adds, “like Sting” Dean flows with him, for the first time sounding like he’s talking to both the therapist and Cas.

“Well I mean look at Sting’s day job who else has 60 hours a week to put in the sack” he knows his face is too expressive for the answer but he’s feeling the flop sweat now. His need to steer away from himself back to things he knows becomes too strong to fight and he silently thanks every God he knows that Cas isn’t mad enough to not do things like steer the conversation to 70s rock stars.

“It’s not a one to ten scenario it’s a basic question. How often do you have sex” agitation starts to creep into the therapists tone. Awkwardly neither answer, opening their mouths, playing with their hands. “How about this week?” the therapist supplies.

“lncluding the weekend?” Dean asks

“Sure.” Another awkward silence as neither answer.

“Describe how you first met.” The therapist suggests, trying again.

“It was in Colombia.”  Dean says with a smile, his eyes distance, like he’s there, remembering.

“Bogota” Cas says, the nitpicky desire to correct Dean’s every word weighting on him.

“Five years ago.” Dean tells the woman.

“Six.” Cas growls.

“Right. Five or six years ago.” Dean says, flashing a toothless smile at the therapist as Cas pointedly looks away shifting again in his chair.

 

Bogota Columbia, five or six years ago…

 

A city on fire. Sirens blare down the road as Dean downs a fifth of tequila. He had been sitting there a while, waiting, book in hand pretending to read about the adventures of Dante as he waited for his target. It was hot, even in the upper scale hotel, fans hooked up to the wall circulating the air, it didn’t help much. He felt like he was burning alive in this hell hole. Dean’s white button down shirt was thin and damp on his skin, showing a necklace sting that dips below the last button. His thick bracelets and watch chafing his left arm though he stubbornly refused to be rid of them. His sun glasses collect sweat around the bridge of his nose, and annoy him to no end. Even though it was still unnaturally bright he took them off and tucked them into the crux of his shirt. It was unbearable but there he stayed, waiting. And waiting. Shots fired outside draws his attention away from his book and to the bar keep as soldiers pour into the lobby.

“¿Que ha pasado?” he asks motioning with his head to the chaos outside.

“Alguien disparó al barracuda” _Someone shot the barracuda_ , “La policía busca a los turistas que viajan solos.” _Police are looking for tourists traveling alone_. Shit. Shit fuck shit. Dean kept his head down but a police man’s eyes almost instantly drew to the lone American loitering at the bar.

“¿Está usted solo, señor?” _Are you alone, sir?_ He glanced up to meet black eyes, the police all wore protective helmets with large black shades that covered over their eyes, protecting them from both sun and tear gas, were there to be a riot. It makes Dean uneasy. He fakes ignorance to buy time, crooning his head, hand to ear as if he didn’t understand or hear through the noise. Outside the chaos rises, shouting in Spanish and gunshots made Dean itchy, eyes shifting for a viable exit as he tried to remain as casual and innocent looking as possible.

“¿Estás  _solo_?” the man repeats, a bit less pleasantly, reaching for his gun, or handcuffs, Dean couldn’t be sure, “Usted va a tener que venir conmigo señor” _You're going to have to come with me, sir._

Attention then draws to the doors of the hotel as a man walks in, out of breath, hair tussled, blue eyes darting from side to side as he surveys the room, lips slightly parted, panting as if he had just escaped, or made it through some horde.

“Señor, su pasaporte, por favor” _Sir, your passport, please_ , one asks as the man smiles with his eyes, slipping a silver blade behind his back, untucking his shirt casually, as if from the heat, to cover it. Dean’s eyes drift from the man with the gun to the door, catching the man’s eye from across the room as the soldier’s descend on him, demanding again and again for papers. Dean knew the police man was descending upon him. He also knew he looked disheveled, far too many buttons unbuttoned, face unshaven, he didn't look like a vagrant but he also couldn't exactly pass for a buisness man. Spectators gaze should be of morose interest, curiosity or relief that maybe he would be taken instead of themselves. But the other mans gaze was nothing like that. Perhaps even one of lust, since disheveled or not he knew the sort of looks his face afforded him, though, when he thinks of it later, he wonders what would have possibly prompted such an assessment after just one fixed gaze look. Maybe it was the ferocity and intensity in which the other man stared that had his brain fried. It was only a few moments, he was sure, but even from across a room the man’s stare made him itch, a silent dialogue transpiring in their gaze that Dean didn’t really understand or argue with. It only broke when his attention was drawn away by another echo of,

“¿Estás solo?” the other man quickly glanced at Dean and back to the policeman, face never faltering in confidence as he shook his head “No” he almost growled. Dean did not expect the voice of such a soft, for lack of a better word _pretty_ looking man to have such a deep gravelly voice. He motioned to the guard who stood uncomfortably close to Dean’s face, shot gun slung over his shoulder.

“No no no no no está bien” he announced, making his way confidently towards Dean with purpose, placing his hand almost possessively on Dean’s left shoulder. “He’s with me” he declared, never taking his eyes off Dean’s. His hand was warm and firm, burning into Dean’s skin like a prayer, “Está bien” he repeated, as they continued walking, never releasing Dean’s arm until they were out of the crowd of policemen and back at the bar. He grabbed Dean’s bag that sat on the stool next to his as if it were a common place occurrence and walked towards a hotel room door on the first floor. Dean grabbed his cell phone and book and followed close behind him, glancing only once back at the horde of police in black and the chaos outside as he followed the man inside.

The man quickly closed the door behind him, watching Dean press his back up against the wall next to him, letting out a sigh as the pretty man pressed his ear to the door.

“I’m Cas” he whispered, still looking at Dean when Dean turned his head so their faces were almost uncomfortably close.

“Dean” he said, reaching out to shake his hand, he awkwardly took it, having to push up Dean’s bag and bend his hand to still keep his ear to the door. But Dean hardly noticed past the smile Cas gave.

“Nice to meet you” he whispered back, eyes still locked. This guy didn’t seem to have any issue with space or embarrassment over staring since he was still staring when a bomb when off somewhere down the street shaking the building. He laughed a little bit, seemingly over the circumstances but Dean didn’t realize until much later it was also because Dean had not yet let go of his hand. 

 

 

 

 

₰

 

“To dodging bullets” Cas says, holding up another shot of tequila. They sat closely at a small table covered in the remnants of a fruit based meal. Soft guitar music plays in what looks to be a barn shifted into a bar. People chat and clink glasses, a few of the women glance in their direction, surveying them as they chat amongst themselves. It’s calm, it serves good alcohol by the bottle and the floor was made of dirt, Dean had no complaints.

“To dodging bullets” he echoed, taking a drink. Cas smiling, somehow always more with his eyes than with his lips, as he stands.

“So it speaks” he muses to Dean's acute lack of chattiness during dinner, Dean watches him intently, “but does it dance?” he says as he walks behind Dean to the dance floor, tracing his hand softly over the same place on his shoulder he did when he first grabbed him out of the pits of hell back in the hotel. Dean makes a big show out of sighing and crossing his arms but his eyes never leave Cas’ figure.

He was like this thing, this soft silent other-worldly thing that had latched his attention onto Dean specifically. He has no idea what he was doing, he had a job to do, and he hadn’t gone for a _he_ in so much time that he thought it a misadventure of his youth stuffed down under years of telling himself that was exactly what it was and yet here he was, swinging back shot after shot as hypnotic blue eyes watch him.

Cas downed another shot from his shot glass he took with him and threw it into the burning barrell, causing the flames to push up over the top for a just a moment lighting up Cas’ face with glowing embers as he wiped his mouth and looked at Dean under hooded eyes. He then began to move hypnotically to the music, closing his eyes and letting his body move before opening them again, eyes finding their target, the fire reflecting in his eyes back to Dean who sat utterly enthralled by the spectacle and also all too aware of the tightening of his pants.

And god help him he danced. He walked through the throng, a small smile on his face, never leaving Cas’ eyes as he met him under stringed up light bulbs, at first very aware of the other couples dancing expertly around them, even through the cloud of too much good alcohol. Cas put his hand on his shoulder and guided him slowly into the rhythm of the song, the other hand wrapped playfully around Dean’s neck as he grinded down on him slowly and with purpose. Slowly Dean got the hand of it, becoming more bold as he turned Cas around wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close as Cas leaned back onto his shoulder. Before Dean realizes it, they are dancing so close their breathing each others air, Cas’ hand on his face and then he's dipping down to rake his hands over Dean stomach and Dean has to swallow down the coil of heat that threatens to unhinge him, looking down at Cas looking up from his stomach. But he is soon rising back up, ghosting past Dean’s mouth as he takes his shoulder again spinning them. Dean’s position suggested he was leading but it was so clear that he wasn’t that he almost felt insecure about it, again nervousness prickled at the back of his neck as he chanced a glance at the cantina. Through the hustle and bustle he couldn’t find any eyes on them but Cas was spinning them awfully fast. Or maybe that was the tequila. Cas moved into Dean again and again arching his back as he dipped and thunder rolled, _maybe it’s just the wind ... or a barrel rolling over_ , he thought hopefully, but the flash of lighting illuminating Cas face put that hope to rest. In the darkness of night they danced, only brought to light by sparks of lightening. The sound of thunder accenting the slow guitar music which played somewhere very distant from the world they shared, enveloped in each other.

Long after everyone else had left, the trash can fires extinguished, making the empty cantina smoky even as rain fell softly around them. Cas’ strong, lean runners body was draped on his, straddling him like the idea of sitting in his own space was unnecessary and preposterous. Dean took another swing of the almost finished bottle of tequila and wrapped his arm around Cas neck pulling him in. The rain poured down around them but Dean hardly felt it when Cas lips finally touched his. A rough press shoots hot daggers into his stomach as he meets Cas eyes slowly waving his way back to Cas’ surprisingly soft lips again and again, tracing lines on his back. Cas moves wordlessly and impossibly closer wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck, grinding himself into him as he swallows up Dean’s moan in another kiss, this one sweet and slow. Dean takes this time to continue the friction, hands drifting even lower grabbing his backside with both hands and grinding him into his groin throwing his head back, trying as hard as he can with mind fuzzed over with pleasure and booze to have any sort of control over his gasps as Cas languished his neck with a flutter of hot wet kisses. Warm rain fell onto his face, kissed away slowly and softly by easy complacent lips which found his mouth over and over as thunder rolled through the smoke and rain.

 

₰

 

Cas awoke to church bells. He lay face down across the bed naked for a long minute before opening his eyes. He wiped the drool from his face has he squinted, surveying his hotel room in all its cracked walls and old, creaky furniture glory. At least the mattress was good. He twisted his back to crack it and hissed at the bright morning sun. Just when he thought maybe Dean had left him the door opened. He smiled when he saw him, clothes from last night, small tray with coffee, the paper and something to eat on it.

“Hello Dean” he says, hearing the grog in his voice as he crosses his legs and sits up, wrapped up in the thin sheet.

“Hey stranger” he says, looking Cas up and down as he walked over to him, “Room service fled – I did what I could”

“Thank you” Cas mumbled as he made a v-line for the coffee and took a long gulping drink. Dean almost grabbed his hand, for how hot he knew it was, but if Cas hurt himself he didn’t show it. He simply moaned a little from pleasure, setting it down. “God that’s good”

“I hope so I had to milk a goat to get it” Dean said, Cas wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, he was too distracted by Dean’s sturdy figure as he stood next to the window, thin white drapes flow at either side of him as he took a hesitant sip of his own drink. The building shook, another bomb went off somewhere nearby but neither of them noticed. Cas had lifted up the paper to find a small flower and was now mesmerized, playing with its soft peddles between his fingers before he brought it up to his nose to smell. Dean could have no knowledge of his love for things that grew but it still warmed his heart none the less. He tucked it behind his ear without thought, not wanting to part from the trinket as he looked up at Dean. He was watching him with a weird expression on his face, somewhere between longing and confusion, a faint smile on his lips. Cas rose, bringing the sheet with him wrapped low on his torso as walked through the billowing curtains to face him. For a long moment they just stared. Cas isn’t sure who moved first but within a moment they are entangled again, Dean drops his coffee, Cas his sheet.


End file.
